My sisters and I end up at the river. This is the river of blood-water. We swim until there is no more water we have not touched. We are not thirsty. Thirst is not why we dive to the bottom. The bottom is too far down for my sisters and I to touch with our feet. When we place feet in water and melt bodies to water, we are made of blood–my sisters are made of nails that I have lost. I lose my sisters on a day when rain hits the river and we are swimming, too much drinking of blood, too much splashing the weather to shift, rain stones, logs, timber, thunder. I come to the river, my sisters and I, to taste how our parents feel when on nights like this, they wait on the porch for us to crawl like bugs on the lawn and, on hands and knees, beg to be let back in so we can sleep in our beds, rest in our beds until the next day comes. The next day, we swim. It is not normal for rivers to flow blood-water, but this river is not a normal river, it is a mouth and we are the tongue that makes the water speak in ways that the blood does: red, river, red. Sometimes boys come to the river to watch us swim–they say, “blood-girls, we’ll watch,” and those boys don’t get to go home if those boys watch us swim in the river, no, it’s not the way of our mouths keeping. Tongues lipping like oracles lure the boys into the caverns of our mouths. Yes, our mouths are rivers of boys screaming. I feel their nails claw my belly when I swim in the river, my sisters and I, but their nails are like logs and stones made of rain–little, too little. I like the sound. Our parents are gone now. The boys won’t come back and as I raise my head from the blood-water I call to my sisters, I say, “sisters, sisters let’s go home,” but they are floating away, too far away, in a place where the blood-water is no longer what I think it is–it is the inside of my body.
1. For Tim Heidecker: cinephile supreme, Gregg Turkington: perpetual guest/loyal #movie friend. Connoisseurs of not only fine cinema, but all cinema. Two who honor film with bags of popcorn, sodas, or champagne at the Oscars.
2. Because the seas of knowledge have twisted into an edited helix, a tangled reel of pure film-joy (ThingX). The empty theater where friendship creates impressions. The unending trail of film–upset words.
3. Turkington: To be possessed by The Hobbit, to fall in love with a classic.
4. Because forgetting titles, lines, botching names, arguments over Star Trek, disagreeing and then bumbling the rating systems are all more human, more beautiful than any polished review in this, the age of the raw.
5. Cinema for life. Cinema is life.
6. We inhale Hollywood on cinema at the cinema: you will find us seated. You will find us spooling ourselves in film until the dim comes.
7. Heidecker: the world is watching at the cinema.
8. Because bubbling up from beneath, spreading laughter from unpredictable angles, from how social media infiltrates the media landscape: podcast, video, Twitter and beyond. These are the reasons we watch.
9. Turkington: “Film Buff”
10. The sheer immensity of output, audio file, web clip, a mashing of movie-landscapes to leaves us confused, giggling silly and full of wonder. Yes, this is cinema.
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The dog, because of what grows on the inside. The radio, because to be broadcast from here is an admittance of our failure to heal. Friend one, because we don’t know what’s under the skin. Friend two, because helicopters from strange places are unwanted on the ice in front of the complex. Friend three, because mind-sinews lack visual proof, lack trust. There are more–we will be safe if we kill those we don’t want to kill. Here we are surrounded by mountains, domed sky, cold spaces to curl up in and forget that this friend is not who he says he is. The more rooms there are, the more we load ourselves to the hilt, pull stacks of guns from cupboards, use scalpels to discuss the foreign, panic, because we know we are alone without love. but we are not alone and that is the problem. The obelisk is a mutant. It is repulsive like the word, “mutant,” when we say it out loud as if Friend four is not Friend four, but a host devouring men. The mutation occurs on the inside. I’ve felt a stir, how it shrinks one to another like the dog or the foreigner. We are alone. I do not want to become a foreigner. It would take too long to convince you of who I am, you who I write this to, you who I used to pull close when the snow-wind fell horizontal like knife to chin. I have a knife in my coat held close to my heart and I will keep it for Friend five, because Friend five is not you. You are not now in the corner clawing the wall to shred my skin from my face. This cannot be you. I’m sorry. I can no longer wait for a reply.
I want to thank everyone for the comments throughout the last three years, for reading, and, hopefully, for growing in meaningful ways. The Eyeslit-Crypt fell by the wayside as my life in Beijing unfolded–Wordpress is blocked here, but I’m on my way back to America soon, so things will pick back up. In what new ways, I’m not sure. I hope the results will be satisfying to both old and new readers.
I feel like this blog became a neglected child and now going back and reviewing the content I produced in 2009-2010, I have to take a breath and carefully think through the future of this site, for the past has bee fantastic: educational, engaging, helpful to others.
The essays and analyses have seemed useful to many readers and for your readership, I am grateful–thank you, again.
I hope to pick up where I left off, to gain new readers and to engage through comments and purposeful discussions. Thank you again for all your support.